Seeds of Doubt
by Sopphires
Summary: "You can't kill an idea." Once implanted, you can't get rid of an idea. It remains in the psyche, influenced by the thoughts and feelings of the person. As Lestrade struggles to keep his job, and his faith, he is faced with a choice between what is easy and what is true.


**Seeds of Doubt**

"_You can't kill an idea."_

Lestrade closed the door with a great sigh. He knew that dark circles hung below his eyes and his grey hair was ruffled and on end. He passed Donovan and Anderson, who were "covertly" whispering by Donovan's desk, and missed the sorry looks that they shot him. He didn't need to see them anymore to know that they'd been given to him. Every member of the office had been giving him sympathetic looks since Sherlock had committed suicide and he was getting sick of it. Getting sick of them all.

"_You can't kill an idea." _

He sat down at his desk and rubbed his forehead. He wanted to believe that Sherlock was a fraud, it would make life much easier but he had several, iron-clad in his mind, reasons to believe in Sherlock Holmes.

"_You can't kill an idea."_

The first reason was John. Dr John Watson, war veteran and survivor of Sherlock Holmes' house. John had been a wreck when he'd arrived at Barts. He hadn't been crying but he was clearly in shock; almost incoherent and in denial about the situation. He kept shaking his head and mumbling. Lestrade sat by his bedside whilst the rest of his team stood by in varying degrees of shock and - to his disgust - satisfaction. He knew John. John was a friend. John believed in Sherlock. John knew him better than _anyone_. John wasn't a good man; he was the _best_. Lestrade knew that even Sherlock had noticed that. If John believed in him than so did a large part of Lestrade.

"_You can't kill an idea."_

The second reason was Mrs Hudson. The kind, elderly, landlady had been devastated to find out that Sherlock had died. She had whacked Sally with a walking stick, and Lestrade had only just managed to avoid it. Mrs Hudson _loved_ John. Mrs Hudson _loved_ Sherlock. They were _her_ boys. Lestrade had known Sherlock for far longer than her, he could make people fawn over his brilliance, he could even make people tolerate him, but he could not make someone _love_ him, not when he didn't _fully_ grasp the concept. Mrs Hudson had, like John, lived with Sherlock. She loved him. You couldn't fake that, no one fake that.

"_You can't kill an idea."_

The last reason was something that Lestrade clung to. The fact that, despite the fact that Sherlock hadn't known his first name, or the fact that he insulted him _every time _they spoke, Sherlock was his friend. Lestrade had seen Sherlock at his best, his worst and his cruellest. Lestrade _knew_ Sherlock. He wasn't a killer. A thrill-seeker; yes. A bastard; yes. A cold-blooded psychopathic kidnapper, bomber, and murder; no way in Hell. Lestrade also knew that Sherlock wouldn't kill himself over something like that. Sink back into drugs; almost definitely. _Kill_ _himself_ _in front of John_; no way. Sherlock was a dramatist, he loved an audience, but he wouldn't do that. No way. Lestrade wouldn't allow himself to believe that.

"_You can't kill an idea."_

Lestrade _couldn't prove it_, and that was the biggest problem. Lestrade _couldn't prove_ that Moriarty had existed. He'd tried calling Mycroft, but that had been no-go. He had no evidence to support his beliefs, so they remained that. That was all he did. Day after day. Get yelled at each morning by the Super for being such a "dumb bugger" and, hoped that time would paper over the huge whole that had been made by the death of Sherlock.

"_You can't kill an idea."_

He barely paid attention to Sally as she stuck her head into his office. He just about absorbed the fact that there'd been a suspicious death. He pushed himself from his chair, swung on his coat, and stormed past her before she could give him another 'I-told-you-so-but-I-feel-sorry-for-you-you-poor-hoodwinked-bugger' look.

"_You can't kill an idea."_

His career was on the line. Lestrade knew the only reason he hadn't been fired for association was because that would take down, not just his own team, but several dozen senior detectives at Scotland Yard alone. The force would be left with no policemen if they sacked everyone who had worked with Sherlock. So, Lestrade was lucky, but he couldn't afford to make mistakes. This could be a big case for him. No time for mistakes.

"_You can't kill an idea."_

As he stepped under the police-tape he was disappointed to see that it was Anderson working the forensics. If he was lucky, Lestrade got other forensics to work with but not today. Lestrade would deal with Anderson's smug 'deductions' about the cause of death and the person, and then he'd go to Barts and talk to Molly. Molly Hooper, poor sweet girl, who had come running to John's side and stayed with him and Mrs Hudson whilst they were in their initial states of grief and shock, when Lestrade couldn't be there. Molly who, Lestrade knew, believed in Sherlock with _every fibre_ of her being, and loved him just as much. Molly would look at Lestrade with no pity, or condescending, just plain understanding. Lestrade got her second opinion on _everything_, and if Anderson turned out to be right than good for him. If not…Lestrade tended not tell him.

"_You can't kill an idea." _

"Name's Emily Patterson. Age 24." Lestrade nodded, eyeing the body of the girl and tried to not be annoyed by the flashing lights of the SOCOs. He knew Donovan was waiting for him to say something, but he just stared at the girl, lying on her back, left hand over right on her chest. She was wearing nothing but a flimsy summer dress with no sleeves. Her golden hair was spread across the dirty ground and the freckles were evenly spread across her pale face. Her shoes, leather painted with peeling gold paint, had _huge_ heels. He glanced around the alley, completely filthy with overflowing trashcans and an abandoned skip. Not the sort of place one expected a well-dressed, pretty, young lady.

"Sir?" he glanced at Donovan, a frown on his face.

"Do we know where she was coming from, _or_ going to?" Donovan shook her head.

"No, sir." Lestrade nodded and bent down, carefully inspecting the body. He pretended not to know that Donovan, along with Anderson and some of the others, were rolling their eyes.

"Cause of death?"

"Can't be sure but it looks like a heart attack…there's the red flush to her face, the swollen jugular and carotid arteries and the blue-grey tinge around the nose, eyes and on the fingers." Lestrade nodded.

"Okay…" Lestrade's gaze was fixed upon the ring finger of her left hand. With his gloved hand he lifted it closer to his eyes. He heard Donovan tut under her breath.

"It's natural causes, sir." Lestrade, putting down the hand having noted to what he wanted, nodded.

"Donovan, you find the next of kin and then go over and tell them." Donovan's eyes widened in surprise.

"Sir?"

"You need to learn somehow."

"But where are you going?" Lestrade turned to her.

"To follow up a lead, get cracking, and send me the crime scene photos…oh, and someone get me her medical records." there was a pause in which everyone blinked at him before jumping into action.

"_You can't kill an idea."_

He strolled into the doctor's surgery, and gave the receptionist a smile.

"Hey, is Doctor John Watson in?" he showed her the badge and she nodded, looking shock.

"Yes…do you want me to call him?"

"No, no. Just, when is he clocking out?"

"His lunch break is in half an hour."

"Okay, I'll wait." Lestrade didn't spend the full half hour waiting in the waiting room, he popped out to get two cups of coffee for the two of them, and to collect the medical records that some poor PC had ended up with. He came back when John was standing by the reception and frowning at what was being said to him. "John." he turned around. His face was remarkably even, but Lestrade knew that he wasn't overly pleased to see him.

"Lestrade."

"I brought coffee." John nodded, but his eyes had fixed onto the brown folder under his arm.

"If Mrs Hudson sent you…" he said, in tired warning. Lestrade shook his head.

"Nah, I came of my own accord."

"But not entirely without purpose." a wry grin was quirking up the corner of his lips, and Lestrade nodded with a sheepish grin.

"Yeah, I need your professional opinion on something." John frowned, his expression darkening slightly.

"I'm not…I'm not _Sherlock_," he whispered, looking at the pavement that was passing beneath their feet. "I _can't_ do _that_." Lestrade nodded.

"I _know_, John, but this is a medical thing." John sighed, having taken a seat on a bench in a park he'd led them into.

"Don't you have people in the force that can do this for you?" Lestrade sighed, looking into the depths of his coffee cup.

"I'm working with _Anderson_, he's formed his opinion…natural causes my arse." John looked at him, a mildly curious expression on his face.

"Go on, then, what do you need?" Lestrade turned to him, arm resting on the back of the bench.

"How common is it for healthy young women in their early twenties to have heart attacks?" John frowned deeply.

"Not _very_ common…not _unlikely_, but…it's said that heart attacks in young women are often misdiagnosed or go unnoticed."

"Okay…well how many heart attack victims look like this." he showed John the crime scene photos. John raised his eyebrows.

"You're seriously telling me they think _this_ was _natural_?" Lestrade shook his head.

"They want it open-shut, but…she's been _placed_ on the ground _and_ she's missing a ring." he showed a photo of her hand to John. John frowned.

"That looks very small to be a wedding ring."

"That's what I was thinking, so what about engagement?" John tilted his head to the side.

"Yep, I guess that seems right." Lestrade smiled at John.

"Thanks, John." he fell into silence but John was examining the photos, holding one up to his face he tapped Lestrade on the shoulder.

"Take a look at that." he pointed to a small red dot on her arm that had previously gone unnoticed to Lestrade.

"Needle?" he asked, and John nodded.

"Looks like it." Lestrade nodded, getting to his feet.

"Thanks, John, I'll get in touch with Molly to make sure they run all the appropriate tests." John gave him a small smile, and Lestrade walked away feeling slightly better about himself.

"_You can't kill an idea."_

"Thanks Molly." the young pathologist handed him the file and Lestrade pretended to ignore the fact that his phone was buzzing like crazy, not doubt Donovan getting pissed off. "Could you run me through these different drugs, can any cause heart attacks?"

"Well, there's this." she pointed a drug with a long complicated name. "It's methylamphetamine." Lestrade frowned. "Methamphetamine; Meth." Lestrade nodded. "There were incredibly _high_ levels in her blood stream."

"And it could have caused a fatal heart attack?"

"Definitely." Lestrade nodded.

"Okay, thanks Molly." she smiled at him.

"Glad to be able to help." he gave her a tired smile before hurrying out of the door, putting the phone to his ear.

"_You can't kill an idea."_

"Donovan?"

"_Sir, where have you been?" _Lestade scratched his head.

"Following up some leads."

"_What leads? It's open shut, so it wasn't natural causes. Anderson said that there was a shit-load of meth in her blood; just a druggie who overdosed."_ Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Okay, for one, that's a human being that's just died; show some respect."

"_Sorry, sir."_

"Secondly, do you have eyes?" he could hear Donovan sniff down the other end of the phone, and he was aware that he sounded a lot like Sherlock, but he didn't care; he had a _killer _headache and Donovan's attitude was really beginning to get to him.

"_Sir?"_ there was a tone of forced respect in her tone and he rolled his eyes.

"Her body was _placed_ on the ground, someone who has a heart-attack doesn't lie on their back and put their left hand over their right whilst they die…and last time I checked, druggies didn't have a habit of injecting into their necks." there was a long pause before he could hear Donovan sighed.

"_So, you think it's murder?"_

"Yes, I do."

"_Sir, I know that you and Sherlock were-"_

"Donovan, please don't pretend you knew or liked him, it's insulting to your intelligence and his memory." there was a long pause. "and, _anyway_, this has _nothing_ to do with Sherlock. This is about us doing the job properly and finding out, for the sake of her family, what happened." there was a pause, before;

"_Yes sir."_

"Now, did the family tell you anything about her fiancé?" he could hear Sally sputtering in shock down the other end of the line.

"_How do you know she has a fiancé?" _Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"She's missing a ring, too small to be a wedding ring, so engagement." there was a pause in which Lestrade was aware that, once again, he'd sounded like Sherlock, maybe he had rubbed off on him.

"_Right…well, his name's Jeffery Abbot. They've been engaged for five months, he's a barista in coffee shop in Pall Mall."_ Lestrade nodded.

"Okay…send me the address and I'll meet you there."

"_Okay, sir. See you there, sir."_ Lestrade nodded, removing the phone from his ear. He could hear, though, the note of acceptance in her tone that told him that she was coming round to his new behaviour.

"_You can't kill an idea."_

He stood outside the quaint coffee shop 'The New Bean', and waited, in impatient silence for Donovan to turn up. He felt a little ridiculous, moving around town without a car, but at the same time it gave him time to think. Any doubts towards Sherlock's personality had been completely erased from his mind. Between himself and John, using the kind of methods that Sherlock would have, he had begun to draw together the stands of the case. As he leant against the wall, a thought occurred to him, sudden and he mentally kicked himself for not chasing it up. He pulled out his phone, and clicked John's number.

"_Lestrade?"_

"John, how easy is it to get a hold of methamphetamine?" there was a long pause after that.

"_Um, this isn't a great time, Lestrade."_ Then he remembered that John was working in the surgery.

"Ah, sorry…" he could practically hear John shaking his head down the line, and then there were some mutterings and a door closing.

"_Sorry, what was that about meth?"_

"How easy is it to get hold of?" there was another long pause.

"_Not that hard, it's a prescription drug used for treating ADHD, a certain type of obesity, serious depression and narcolepsy." _Lestrade sighed with a nod.

"How easy would it be able to get in a form so that it could be injected?" he could hear John cogitating it over the other end and nodded at Donovan as she came towards him.

"_I don't know, sorry Lestrade."_ Lestrade shrugged.

"Nah, it's fine."

"_Glad to be of more help, I'll see if I can get you any more info."_

"Cheers." he hung up, and turned to Donovan. "Does Abbot have any kind of medical condition? Depression, narcolepsy?" Donovan was gaping at him, eyes wide and disbelieving.

"How did you know?"

"It's what meth is used for in medicine. What's he got?"

"Narcolepsy." Lestrade nodded, and indicated with his arm that she should go through first. Lestrade glanced around the shop, and noted that it was quiet, the kind of place that people came to regularly. The warm room was filled with soft background noise; the lulling twang of a guitar, the babble of conversation, and hearty laughter.

"Jeffery Abbot?" the young man looked up in surprise as the two cops - though he didn't know what they were - strode up to the counter.

"Yes?" him and Donovan showed their badges as one. He stared between them for a second before breaking into a run. Lestrade rolled his eyes, and Donovan darted away, cups went smashing onto the floor and coffee began to stain the linoleum. He remained, casually leaning against the counter, and rubbing his brow, until Donovan came back in, holding the boy by the back of scruff of his jacket. Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"Running is never a good idea." he said, feeling mildly amused by the situation, no doubt due to the lack of sleep. He pulled out his cuffs and put them on. Donovan led him to the car, and Lestrade could only feel mildly proud.

"_You can't kill an idea."_

"I loved her." it was all Jeffery Abbot had said since they'd arrested him. "I loved her." the engagement ring was found in his pocket. The solicitor had sat in silence since he'd received an icy glare from his client.

"Why did you kill her?" demanded Donovan, but Lestrade leaned back, trying to see the best way through his defences. Suddenly he leant forward.

"How did you meet her?" Jeffery's eyes flitted to him for a second before he tapped his fingers against the table again.

"Hospital." he muttered. "I was getting treatment, her sister was sick. She was kind to me. She doesn't treat me like a freak." Lestrade nodded, understanding starting to spread across his haggard face.

"Yeah, you guys started going out?"

"It took time, I had…had to be patient…had to _show_ her." Lestrade nodded again, just waiting for him to tell him the punch line. "She _loved_ me. She _couldn't_ leave."

"She'd found someone, though. Someone…normal." a fire erupted in Jeffery's eyes and he slammed his fist against the table.

"She said I was _special_! She _loved me_ for _being_ different! I was _special_!" Lestrade nodded.

"But you were hard work, you were tough to deal with…she got stressed out, didn't she? She needed some relief."

"She saw _him_, _every day_. She laughed at _everything_ he said." his face was twisted into a sneer. "Like _he_ was special, but he _wasn't_. He was _normal_!"

"But she was going to leave you."

"She got dressed up…she put on the pretty dress to see him…she _never_ put on the pretty dress."

"So you followed her?"

"She had to stop. We were special _together_. Her sister was _special_ and she _understood_."

"So you gave her the drug, so she'd be like you?" the hands convulsed but the head bobbed and Lestrade sat back. "For the tape?"

"Yes! If she was _like me_ she'd _stay_." Lestrade didn't need to hear anymore. He got to his feet.

"Donovan, charge him." Donovan nodded, watching him go with a careful frown. Lestrade shook his head in pity at the poor young man's condition. He was sick. He wasn't a cold-blooded killer. He'd just become obsessed, unable to get it out of his head. Everything that had been nice had turned bad. It had been twisted and warped, because once it settled into his mind there was nothing he could do.

"_You can't kill an idea."_

Lestrade sat in the waiting room, cups of coffee in his hands. John, throwing on his jacket caught sight of him and frowned.

"What do you need now?" he asked, gratefully taking the cup.

"Nothing, just came to thank you."

"You caught the killer? Already?" Lestrade nodded and John gave him a friendly punch. "Not bad." and Lestrade laughed.

"Yeah, couldn't have done it without your help, though."

"So, um, you came to thank me."

"Well," he said, shrugging. "yeah. I just…wanted to thank you…I wanted to thank you for backing up my crazy ideas." John looked at him, a deep, intense, stare.

"Do you think he was a fraud?" there was a long pause in which Lestrade stared him down. In the end he looked towards the sky, not dignifying it with a straight response.

"You know, when I first met Sherlock I got this idea that, maybe, one day he could be a good man, I told you that, and Sherlock was right about _a lot_ of things, but the most _profound one; you can't kill an idea."_ John looked at him, his brow still slightly furrowed, but a small smile quirked his lips. Lestrade, knocking back the rest of the coffee, gave him a small smile in return.


End file.
